


A Midsummer Daydream

by gly13



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Gen, Pixie!Yangyang, magic shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gly13/pseuds/gly13
Summary: Yangyang owns a magic shop.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	A Midsummer Daydream

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i wrote this for the [nct/wayv fleur zine](https://twitter.com/nctwayv_fleur) a while back and am finally posting it!!
> 
> inspired by the crocus flower, which signifies youth, mirth, and cheerfulness
> 
> i really hope you enjoy and happy yangyang day !!

There’s magic in the little things.

It’s there in the big things too, but they’re not nearly as much fun.

It’s in the broken musical instruments hanging on the walls of his shop, and the fragments of coloured glass that dangle on the ends of fraying string from the ceiling and bend light around the room. It’s in the window that never quite closes and the weird tilt to the till on the counter.

It’s everywhere in Yangyang’s little shop, stocked full of things that don’t really matter, that are overlooked and forgotten, that Yangyang collects and treasures.

Showcased on wonky shelves opposite scratched mirrors, potted plants that seem a little too wild and a touch too green. Out of tune music boxes that still have the attraction of sirens, paperweights that shine a little too bright in the evening, and flickering neon signs that look lost outside of a bustling diner. 

Thousands of miscellaneous scraps of rubbish repurposed and given a home in this small corner of the world. An old hole-in-the-wall type of shop most people would walk straight past. Yangyang’s pride and joy.

When he’s asked what he sells, Yangyang laughs and pushes his hair away from his face to reveal the distinct point to his ear and let them know that they will not get a straight answer out of him.

“Trinkets and assorted knickknacks,” he tells them. It’s the same thing that’s written on the sign outside in fading letters, worn from years of sun exposure.

It’s not a lie but it’s not the whole truth either. But, then again, he can’t take credit for all of the impacts his sales have.

He sells dreams and illusions and belief. He sells the magic people can’t manufacture for themselves. A used cinema ticket infused with the aroma of a lucky coincidence, a blunt pencil twirled through the fingers of fate. He sells the little things that make the big things happen.

Even the highest of all Fae needs a little bit of a pixie’s common magic every now and then, and Yangyang is more than happy to supply. They’ll never trust him, but that can hardly be helped and they’ll still buy from him so that doesn’t really matter.

And in the shop that deals entirely in magic, there is a part of it untouched by anything but the elements.

A flower bed. Right next to the till, on top of the counter. Crocuses. Yellow and purple and white. A medley of unmagical blooms in the middle of a magical shop.

Unlike every other plant for sale, these flowers are not nurtured with whispered spells and carefully crafted elixirs, but with trails of water from a tin watering can and soft sunlight that filters in from the street outside.

And in a room full of treasures, they are perhaps the things Yangyang treasures the most.

⚘

The wind chime hanging over the door sends a starlight of a twinkle into the stillness of the shop and summons Yangyang from where he had been brewing a potion in the back room. Yangyang sits behind the counter and watches as a woman wanders around the shop, hand reaching gingerly out to feel the objects which catch her eye.

She is tall ‒ taller than Yangyang, at least ‒ with long brown hair and an aura Yangyang can’t quite place. There is something young about her face but age in her eyes, and maybe that could pique his interest if Yangyang hadn’t long given up on trying to understand his patronage. She is here and that is what matters, not from where she has come.

The woman’s movements are furtive, hesitant as she pads around and looks at the merchandise. She comes to a stop in front of a wooden shelf nailed crudely into the wall.

There are a great many things sitting there and Yangyang doesn’t know what has caught the woman’s eye but he has a feeling of what it might be.

There is no order or system to where the items in the shop are placed other than the attraction Yangyang will feel towards a particular corner or wall or table. Everything is where it should be, even if it looks a little out of place.

Yangyang stays quiet while the woman browses, and the shop is silent bar the soft melody courtesy of the charm Yangyang has cast over the shop. It changes depending on who walks in and in this moment it is a pleasant violin tune.

The woman reaches an arm out and Yangyang watches as her fingers wrap around a glass snow globe. He smiles. Inside the ornament, he knows, are the snowflakes of the longest Winter he has ever seen and the warmth of the fire he kept lit through it all. Inside it is the mountainous landscape Yangyang wishes he’d seen and stories to last a lifetime.

There is a crack across its surface. The shallow scratch an endless chasm in the fragile glass. Yangyang thinks it’s charming, that it adds character; there isn’t much beauty to be found in perfection. He hopes the customer thinks so, too.

The woman places the snowglobe on the counter.

“Just this?” Yangyang asks, already knowing the answer.

The woman’s face breaks from its stoicism as she speaks. “I actually came in here looking for something else.” She sounds confused, but there’s something like the phantom of confidence in her voice. Like she’s unused to doubting her own mind. Yangyang would apologise, but he has to find his kicks somewhere. “I just can’t seem to remember what it was.”

Yangyang waves his hand under the counter and pretends not to notice the jewellery stand woven of metal ivy move across the countertop and come to a stop in the woman’s field of vision.

The shop has this funny habit of speaking to Yangyang in some non-existent language that Yangyang has to make sense of. They say magic takes after its caster and so perhaps it’s Yangyang’s own fault that the shop likes to be a brat every now and then.

Yangyang takes a bag made of card from where it hangs on a hook below the counter and focuses on wrapping the snowglobe in a bed of tissue paper. When he looks up, the snowglobe safe with a spell around it for protection, he finds the woman turning over one of the necklaces in her calloused fingers.

It’s a bronze locket in the shape of an oval, engraved with symbols Yangyang is sure he could decipher if he dedicated an afternoon in the local library. The customer attempts to pry it open. The effort is futile but Yangyang lets her try anyway.

“What’s inside?” She asks eventually.

“I don’t know,” Yangyang says, because he doesn’t. “I found it in a fountain.”

He doesn’t say which fountain, doesn’t say what sort of magic the locket stewed in for who knows how long before Yangyang brought it here.

“I’ll take it,” the woman says.

Yangyang wraps the locket in tissue paper before placing it in a box which he then places in the bag alongside the snowglobe.

“What do I owe you?” The woman asks, reaching into her pocket and bringing out a black leather purse.

Yangyang laughs and shakes his head. “We don’t deal in money here,” he says.

It’s not such an uncommon thing, but it is slightly more unusual to find in an urban capital such as this.

“Then what?”

Yangyang assesses the products, weighs up what they’re worth. He’s gotten good at pricing.

“A thought you’ve never spoken aloud,” he decides. It’s a standard cost, and well worth what the snowglobe and locket will bring this stranger.

The woman thinks for a moment before she speaks, and then the words of her mind are released into existence for the first time. Yangyang collects them from where they float in the air and ushers them into a small glass bottle with a wave of his hand. He’s sure the words will mean something to someone somewhere in the future.

“Thank you,” he says as the woman picks up the bag. “I hope you find a way to open that locket.”

“Thanks,” the woman says. And the wind chime sounds again as she leaves.

⚘

The tell-tale sound of the wind chime flits across the shop and Yangyang looks up to see who has entered. He can’t suppress the grin that takes over his face.

Ten, by any biological definition, is human. But the way he behaves is anything but.

He has the confidence of a Fae, the wit of a dragon, and the allure of a siren. He’s an enigma; an exception. Or maybe he’s just mastered that peculiar human ability to adapt and change but Yangyang doesn’t care to unravel the mystery in which Ten entirely purposefully wraps himself.

Because Ten may have the petulance of a fairy, and the presence of a god, but he has the mischief of a pixie.

It’s always good to find a friend of your own kind, but, with creatures as fickle as pixies, it can be hard to find someone who stays in the same place long enough for a bond to form. And as he strolls into Yangyang’s shop for the umpteenth time in the past month, eyes meandering the lengths of the walls and his dozens of piercings shining in his ears, Yangyang recognises that glint of mirth in Ten’s eyes, and knows ‒ not for the first time ‒ that he is a kindred spirit.

Ten drapes himself lazily across the counter and taps the little bell that sits there even though he can see Yangyang standing right in front of him. Ten likes to do things like that: be a bother. And Yangyang grins because he enjoys the same thing.

“I’m bored,” Ten whines, stretching his neck out, not unlike a cat.

“So you decided to come bother me during business hours?” Yangyang pretends he’s busy by shuffling things around on the counter, watering his flowers and the like.

Ten scoffs. “Like you’re ever busy.”

Yangyang rolls his eyes and fixes Ten with a look.

“Besides,” Ten continues matter of factly, “you’re so happy to see me. I bring light into your life.”

“What do you want?” Yangyang says as dryly as he can manage.

“I’m bored,” Ten says again.

“Yes, I got that much, thanks.”

“Kun isn’t paying attention to me; he’s working or something.”

“And that’s my fault?”

Ten reaches out to play with one of the small figurines on the countertop, running his fingers over it in movements that seem more agitated than his usually relaxed disposition. Not in a bad way, in that way where anticipation makes him unable to sit still, where he is so excited that he can’t contain himself and it thrums out of him in palpable waves.

“What are you plotting?” Yangyang asks, finally giving Ten the attention he’s been demanding.

“A prank. On Kun.”

That’s all Yangyang needs. “I’m in,” he says, leaning closer into Ten’s space as though someone will hear them otherwise. As though it’s a secret they need to keep from the entire universe. It’s a little childish but Yangyang delights in that feeling. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ten says. “That’s where you and your strange little shop come in.”

He stops playing with the figurine and begins to look around the shop for inspiration. Yangyang laughs and joins in.

“What sort of prank are you going for? A record player that never stops playing and has the annoying habit of turning invisible every so often?” He lifts said object up. Ten eyes it for a moment before he shakes his head. Yangyang puts it down and lifts up his next suggestion. “A pair of slippers which always seem to be wandering off?”

Ten shakes his head again.

“What’s this?” Ten says, holding an old baseball cap up.

“An unattainable goal,” Yangyang says. “You don’t want to give that to him; trust me.”

They look for a long time, cracking jokes and devising outlandish schemes. The shop is bathed in the dusty pink and orange light of late afternoon when Ten finally emerges from beneath a table, a pencil clutched in his hand.

“What’s special about this?”

Yangyang looks at it for a moment as he remembers. “It never writes what you want it to,” he says. “I got it from an elf in return for some gloves that keep your hands cold.”

Ten laughs. “Well, I definitely want that. I just need something else as well.”

“This?” Yangyang gestures to a spatula. “Kun likes to cook, right?” Ten nods. “Well, this will always make it too salty.”

“I’ll take it.” Ten’s grin is so wide Yangyang’s half-worried it will split his face in two but he matches it with one of his own anyway.

They put the items on the counter, and Yangyang bags them.

“You’ll send me a video of his reaction?”

“Of course. And you’d be happy to accept that as payment, wouldn’t you?” 

“Not a chance,” Yangyang smirks. Ten pouts exaggeratedly but Yangyang pays him no mind. “You’ve already used that card three times.”

“Fine,” Ten relents, but there’s no real grievance about him. “What’s the damage then?”

Yangyang contemplates; it doesn’t take long. “A promise you never kept.”

Ten’s eyebrows quirk. “A little heavy for a prank don't you think? Whatever happened to my friends and family discount?”

Yangyang laughs and shakes his head. “A broken promise for boundless laughter is fair. Besides, so many creatures are fascinated by the human ability to lie and I'm running a little low on stock.”

“It wasn’t a lie at the time I said it.”

“No, but it became one.”

Ten sighs, ruffling Yangyang’s hair. “You drive a hard bargain, Yangyangie.”

But he relents, and when Ten leaves the shop, his heart is lighter without the burden of regret, and Yangyang has another broken mirror birthed by a broken promise to add to his collection.

Sometimes the cost can also be a blessing to the one who pays it, and Yangyang only bends the rules slightly in very special circumstances. The friends and family discount.

⚘

The sonorous sound of the grandfather clock in the corner mixes in with the delicate noise of the wind chime as the door closes behind a customer.

Yangyang watches through the glass as the woman leaves with a harp missing half of its strings but with enough charms to make up for it. When she’s out of sight, he turns to the notebook she’d given him as payment. A hundred ideas. Yangyang places it on one of the bookshelves, sliding it in between a cookbook passed down for generations and a first-edition of a best seller.

He hums as the clock continues to ring out that it’s noon and leaves for his lunch break, trusting the shop to flip the sign to  _ closed _ and lock up behind him.

  
  


He swirls fairy dust into his tea like it’s sugar and watches as the sparkles catch the light before they disappear into the translucent liquid. In the afternoon sun, the green tea looks almost gold but Yangyang doesn’t doubt that there’s a spell to blame for that.

“Can I get you anything else, Yangyangie?”

Yangyang looks up and sees Jaemin floating next to his table, wings fluttering both furiously and daintily at once. They’re light pink ‒ just like his hair ‒ but lined with silver.

“I’m good; thanks, Nana,” Yangyang says.

Normally, Jaemin would probably stay for a chat but today the coffee shop is busy, hectic and vibrant with life, so he flies off to another table. Yangyang takes a bite of his scone, savouring the taste on his tongue before following it with a sip of his tea. Baking is an art that has always eluded Yangyang, no matter what spells he uses and so he is endlessly grateful for the fairy café across the street, and even more grateful to have found friends there.

He stirs his tea absentmindedly. And he loves how even the clink of the metal spoon against the china teacup sounds magical.

It’s the moments like these, suspended in that careful balance between ordinary and remarkable, that Yangyang likes the most. The moments when magic is small but feels important and real. Where the world exists around him, and Yangyang is content to just be.

⚘

The door hits against the wind chime and a man walks into the shop, movements more purposeful than Yangyang has seen from a customer in a while. Yangyang looks up from where he’d been watering his crocuses and notices with surprise that the man is not browsing the shop, but rather making a beeline directly towards Yangyang himself.

Yangyang opens his mouth to greet him, but the man beats him to it.

“You sell magical things here, right?” His words are rushed, like time is a precious commodity to him.

Yangyang nods.

“You sell, like, magical solutions, and luck, and emotions?” 

Yangyang frowns a little but he nods anyway.

The man pushes a hand through his hair and his eyes flicker away from Yangyang for only a moment before they’re boring into him once more. It’s then that Yangyang notices the lines on his face, the gaunt, sunken space under either eye.

“I’ve been looking for this place for a long time,” the man says.

Yangyang’s frown deepens. That’s not right. People aren’t supposed to look for the shop; they are just meant to find it. Yangyang asks the shop what has happened but it does not reply, though Yangyang is not sure he really expected it to.

“Why have you been looking?” He asks.

The man meets Yangyang’s eyes dead-on and Yangyang knows then that he is human.

“Give me a clock that only goes backwards,” he says. And Yangyang has one of those but he is sure the man does not want it; it’s a cursed thing, hidden in a drawer that does not open. “Give me an hourglass and let me live in the middle of it.” The man’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the edge of the counter. “Give me an elixir to make me young again. Give me youth in a bottle. Please, I am begging you.”

“Begging is not an accepted form of payment here,” Yangyang says, keeping his voice as level as he can.

The man startles. “I’ll give you anything‒”

“I cannot give you what you ask for. Youth is large and significant and we only deal in the little things here.”

“Please,” the man’s voice breaks.

“You had youth once,” Yangyang says. “Youth of your own.” Pity washes over him like a cold wave on a warm shore. “What did you do with it?”

“I wasted it.” His voice is bitter and Yangyang can feel the shop recoil but he holds firm. “I wasted it and it’s my own fault and I will give you anything to get it back.”

“That’s not how this works,” Yangyang says softly. “Youth is like smoke; if you try and catch it you’re just wasting time. You have to appreciate it when it’s still part of the fire.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” the man says as desperation morphs into anger. “You’re still young.”

“Maybe,” Yangyang admits. “But this shop has seen a few lifetimes.”

He lets the words sit, lets the man take deep and shuddering breaths, lets the sorrow seep out of him.

“You could buy a fragment of another person’s memory ‒ another person’s youth ‒ if you’d like. Or you could not put an expiry date on your own.”

It’s not the smartest business idea to suggest that a customer doesn’t buy anything, but Yangyang has never really been in it to be an entrepreneur.

“I looked for so long.” The man sounds pained.

“And you could have used that time better. But that hardly matters now, does it?”

Yangyang looks around the counter, and grabs the first thing he can reach that he doesn’t think he’ll miss. It’s a hair tie that’s lost all elasticity, loose and limp as he presses it into the man’s hand. It’s enchanted but Yangyang can’t remember how. “Take this. As a souvenir. As a reminder that your youth is not lost just yet.”

The man takes a long pause, turning it over in his hands, pulling it this way and that before finally slipping it over his hand and letting it dangle around his wrist.

“What do you want for it?”

Yangyang doesn’t have to think about it. “Your memories of this shop. All of them.”

“What if I need something else?” He sounds worried but Yangyang just smiles.

“Then it’ll find you.”

⚘

It is late in the evening when Yangyang’s last customer of the day leaves, taking with them a calculator with no equals button. Yangyang yawns, stretching his arms high above his head and almost dislocating his jaw. But just as Yangyang is about to tell the wind to flip the sign to  _ closed _ , a man comes into the shop. He doesn’t leave a name but he does leave an impression.

“I’d like an umbrella, please.” He says, sounding strained. “It’s raining.”

He looks a little stricken and a lot frazzled. Hair pulled up on its ends in a wild number of directions and skin on his face beaten in by the harsh rain. There is a sort of untamed madness hidden deep in his eyes, but Yangyang has always been good at picking these things out. He is windswept with raindrops still lingering on his clothes and his flesh.

“Of course,” Yangyang says. “Please, take a seat.”

The man does, falling into a wooden chair at one of the tables littered about the room. Yangyang gives him his umbrella, but he also gives him a cup of tea brewed with the essence of a song whose name you can’t quite place, and a book with no final chapter.

They sit in silence, sipping at their tea and watching the storm rage outside. The rain pools into puddles on tarmac which capture the streetlights and reflect them back out in distorted, pixelated beams of colour. The droplets hurl against the glass of the windows with so much force Yangyang is half-sure they will break, and the sound is thundering but constant and in that way it is calming. The air is charged and electric but tranquil all the same and Yangyang wishes he could bottle the atmosphere and sell it but he knows he can’t. He knows this moment exists only for him to live in and experience. The sort of moment that can only exist between two complete strangers and a storm. The sort of moment that would not exist if Yangyang had closed his shop even a second earlier than he had.

And in return for all he has given this man, he asks for a story and a fear. The man does not disappoint.

⚘

Yangyang hums a soft melody under his breath as he plucks a dozen or so crocuses from his flower bed. He weaves their stems together, his motions slow and languid. Business has been slow today, and now it is late afternoon and the world feels lazy and peaceful, urging Yangyang to mimic it within himself.

His fingers flex as he bends the stems of the flowers, straining them as he fashions them into a crown. It’s a little haphazard, messy and not the most elegant thing in the world but he thinks there’s a certain rustic charm to it. Besides, he’s bored and it’s Jaemin’s birthday soon and whenever Jaemin comes into the shop he comments on how pretty these crocuses are.

The movements are almost therapeutic in their repetitiveness, and before Yangyang knows it, the crown is complete. A very almost circular arrangement of brightly coloured blooms twisted together in a way that could be mistaken for a pattern if you weren’t looking too closely.

Yangyang takes it in his hands and holds it at arm’s length, admiring it from different angles with self-satisfaction snug proudly in his chest.

The gentle yet resounding sound of the wind chime reaches Yangyang’s ears and he puts the flower crown down to one side to greet his first customer of the day.

Walking aimlessly around the shop is a man, face set in a natural frown. He’s wearing a long grey coat that makes him seem even bigger than he is and his hair is messy despite the wind outside being calm. He spends a long time looking at all the things in the shop, lifting many of them up from where they sit to get a closer look at them before seemingly growing bored, placing them back down and moving onto the next.

Yangyang hasn’t gotten a very good look at his face yet because, by some ridiculous coincidence, the man seems to operate entirely in the few shadows of Yangyang’s shop.

Yangyang lets him browse for a long while because he understands that everyone needs a little time to find what they need. But when it stretches on and the man still seems unsatisfied, he decides to intervene.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?”

The man startles, as though he hadn’t seen Yangyang. He looks at Yangyang for a prolonged moment and Yangyang takes the opportunity to look back.

The man’s eyes have a downward turn to them, drooping slightly at the edges as though gravity has wrapped her fingers around them. They’re bloodshot, not the kind that comes with crying or hayfever but the kind that comes from that bone-deep exhaustion that can find no other way to express itself. There is a weariness, a sort of perpetual unhappiness about his features in the way his lips press into a thin line and his throat bobs like he’s holding back honest words that might embarrass him.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Yangyang tries again.

“I don’t know,” the man says and his voice isn’t anything like Yangyang had expected. It’s quiet, timid but deep, like there could be power there if he tried.

“That’s okay,” Yangyang says, and gestures for the man to come up to the counter. “Did you have something in mind? Maybe I can help you find what you need.” It is his job, after all.

“I just‒” the man seems to contemplate whether or not to say it, eyes fixed on a singular point on the surface of the counter. “I just wanted to see if there was anything in here that could make me happy. It’s the little things that manage to do that, sometimes. So I thought I might come into a bit of luck. I mean, I hoped I would.”

He takes a deep breath and pulls his head up to meet Yangyang’s eyes. “I’ve tried everything,” he says. “And now I want to try magic.”

“There’s no magical fix to sadness,” Yangyang says. The man’s face falls but Yangyang keeps going. “But if you’re after the little things, then you’ve come to the right place. Did nothing in the shop catch your eye? Spark any happiness?”

The man shakes his head. Slowly, like he’s shameful, apologetic. The shop cries out to Yangyang, telling him that this man is a broken soul that Yangyang cannot fix, but he can help. He looks around the shop, mind whirring as he tries to think. His eyes come to rest and he smiles to himself. He pulls his hair forward a little, making sure it covers the tops of his ears.

“Just because there’s no quick solution doesn’t mean magic doesn’t help, though,” he says, looking back at the man. “There’s a charm for everything, and most of them find their way into this shop.”

The man’s eyes widen in hope and he leans across the counter.

Yangyang reaches over and picks up the flower crown he has just made, lifting it with an exaggerated reverence. He proffers it to the man, holding it out in front of him and waits as the man gapes at it, eyes tilting upwards for the first time. The man looks at it as though it were something holy passed down from the gods and not crafted by Yangyang’s own amateur hands mere minutes before the man had arrived. And Yangyang is glad that his plan seems to be working. He’ll just have to make Jaemin another one.

“This crown is enchanted,” he says, the tale spilling from his mouth like a famous legend rather than a hollow lie. “Blessed with luck and life and joy. Said to search for hidden cheer in its wearer and summon it to the forefront of their mind, to the surface of their being. It takes forgotten happiness where it lies dormant inside of you and makes you feel it again, vivid and distinct.”

The man’s hand snakes upwards and makes to touch the crown but his fingertips grow still an inch away, hovering in the air. He meets Yangyangs’s eyes, the question there obvious and Yangyang nods, giving him permission.

Yangyang watches as the man feels each stem and petal with touches so light it is as though he is handling glass or gold or something else with value beyond measure. He watches with poorly hidden pride as the man marvels. After all, a pixie’s true magic lies not in their spells or hexes but in their ability to twist the truth.

“It’s yours if you would like it,” Yangyang says.

The man looks up. “Like it? I would love it. How much is it? I’ll give you anything.”

Yangyang wonders what it is about magic that makes people so very willing to give up everything for the tiniest trace of it.

“The spare button for your coat,” he says. The safety of a fall-back. A risk. That's the cost for a well-meaning lie and a last resort.

The man looks surprised. “Surely that’s not enough. Take more.”

Yangyang chuckles. “It is a fair cost. Trust me.”

For a moment, Yangyang thinks the man will try to argue with him. But then he is reaching into the inner seam of his coat and ripping out the button sewn into the label. He holds it out but pauses before dropping it into Yangyang’s open palm.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“Very,” Yangyang says.

Yangyang’s hand closes around the button, smooth and light.

The man reaches out with both hands and places the crown on his head. “Thank you,” he says. He means it.

Yangyang smiles; he waves. When the man leaves, he is walking considerably taller than before. Yangyang pockets the button, thinking he’ll keep it for himself.

⚘

There’s life in magic. Quintessentially bound into each moment that passes is the gentle thrum of the universe that guides it.

And if there’s one thing Yangyang believes in, it’s magic that isn’t really magic. Not in the traditional sense, at least. Not in the  _ wave a wand and chant a spell _ way, but in the sudden burst of confidence before doing something difficult, or a smile out of nowhere when all hope seems lost. He believes in the little things.

He trails his fingers over the velvet petal of a newly growing crocus.

The wind chime sounds.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading !!
> 
> i actually really adore this piece so i hope you do too!!  
> if you did please leave kudos and comments they mean the world to me <3
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/whatisanult)   
>  [cc](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)


End file.
